Safari To Hell- A Literary Thriller (v5.0) Read online

  SAFARI TO

  HELL

  by Nemon

  Amsterdam Publishers

  Copyright © 2014, Nemon

  For Remco

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  I INITIATION

  II 2 1/2

  III THE LOST FACE

  About the Author

  Colophon

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and situations appearing in this book are fictional, and no association whatsoever with existing persons or situations is expressed or implied.

  PROLOGUE

  When the anesthesia wore off and he came to, his only thought was the one that drove all others out of his mind: I’m on fire. His first impulse was to jump up, but no part of his body would move. He wanted to scream, but no sound came from his open lips. And the terrible thing was he knew, he knew exactly what was happening to him, because somehow, some way, it had happened to him before. Or he had imagined it had. And his only hope was that this time, too, it wasn’t really happening, it was just the same gruesome nightmare that he would wake up from, had to, sooner or later. That he wasn’t really buried up to his neck under a burning sun, left to die a horrible death. God, let it not be happening or let it be happening to someone else, I don’t care who, just not me. This was the strange prayer he wanted to intone, but a feeble whine was all that came out.

  Two men with shovels were standing nearby. They had buried him standing up, evidently in a hole they had dug, because his head only came up to their knees. They had left his neck free. He could almost move his head. Everything else was held fast and he could hardly breathe from the pressure on his chest. It was obvious that he was already as good as buried, standing up, as was the traditional ritual here, and just a few more shovels over him and his head, too, would disappear under the earth. Didn’t matter that he was still alive, if you could call the situation he found himself in living.

  “What do you think, Toto,” said a voice. “Don’t you think our friend has a nice view from over there?”

  “Can’t be better,” answered the man who had been addressed as Toto. “But let’s ask his opinion.”

  The other bent over him. “I hope you enjoy this,” the man leered, with the grin he had come to know so well very close to his face. “People come from all over to see the view from here.”

  “So you’d better look very carefully,” said Toto. “We don’t want you to miss any of this. Do we, Sharky?”

  “No, we don’t.”

  “And you know why? Look.” Sharky pointed. High above them, great birds circled, their wings barely moving. “They are already there. Watching. Once they are here, it will be too late. And I am sorry to tell you that they will pick out your eyes first.”

  “That’s why my friend told you to look very carefully. Because it will be your last. Your last sunset. That’s why.”

  They were on a plateau looking out over a plain of red earth, tall grass and blooming acacia trees. Along the meandering lines of riverbeds you could see pale green brush. On the horizon was the brown ribbon of corrugated metal houses of the Kibera slum, shrouded in its eternal cloud of dust. High above the mountaintops, clouds churned with their dazzling changes of shape and color, throwing their shadows across the undulating terrain before dissipating into nothingness high above the valley. In the setting sun, the trees in the distance faded into dark silhouettes. The sky took on a coral hue, went a deep cobalt blue and then gradually faded to grey.

  Did any of these images get through to him? Or was he seeing more intensely than ever, knowing he was seeing for the last time? The eyes that will never see again see everything and nothing at once. The hellish pain that flowed through his head did not trickle down into his body, which had become completely numb. It was as though what was buried was no longer part of him, as if now he was nothing more than a head. A shadow stretched out over them. Even if he had wanted to, he couldn’t raise his head high enough to see what was moving just above him. The two men leaned on their shovels and smiled. See, there they were already. It never took long for vultures to arrive. But it still surprised you every time, how fast they knew where they needed to be. When someone rang their dinner bell.

  If he didn’t mind, Toto and his friend Sharky would be going now, they said. As soon as they had moved off, even before he heard the hum of the Land Rover starting, the boldest of them had already descended. One already made a move for his eye, his softest part, the best part, the delicacy that vultures fight over. By screaming as hard as he could he was able to keep them at a distance, for now. But that distance got ever smaller. Every scream scared them less than the last. And rolling his eyes wildly and making faces had no effect on them at all. As soon as he couldn’t scream anymore, from screaming himself hoarse or from exhaustion, it would be over. Their greedy heads already loomed towards him at the ends of their smooth, bald necks, lovingly adapted by Mother Nature so they could plunge those heads right down to their shoulders into the delicious innards, so the blood of the carrion didn’t stain their feathers. With jerky little hops, they retreated and advanced in turns, in a steadily tighter circle. A special performance just for him, this ritual mating dance with death.

  I

  INITIATION

  Rule number one: never be late to a job interview. On the other hand, don’t be absurdly early, either. But somehow that morning, Barend Meuleman managed to be at the address where he needed to be, the Hirsch Building on Leidse Square in downtown Amsterdam, at eight thirty-eight, although his appointment was only at ten. He looked up at the building, which he had known as long as he could remember: he had been born not far from here. Six stories high, the second ringed by a balcony adorned with stone pillars with bulbous ornaments, the two above that with cast-iron railings around the balconies at every set of three tall, rectangular windows, each window divided by white muntins into eighteen glassy squares. Between the windows, imposing Ionic columns, and at the left corner, the turret, the bronze plates of its dome oxidized green. There, in huge gold letters, was the name of the firm: Barnett & Coolridge. Rather pompous building, from the same era as other pompous Amsterdam landmarks like the Tuschinski Theatre and the Rijksmuseum. Once occupied entirely by illustrious haute couture salon Hirsch, now the store confined itself to the ground floor and sublet the rest as office space. At first glance, not an obvious choice of space for such a renowned international law firm like Barnett & Coolridge, but just try finding anything even close to that big in the middle of town. Was he really applying for a job here? He tried to guess what floor, what window he would be interviewed behind. The longer he thought, the harder he found it to believe that this was really happening. In an uncharacteristic fit of hubris, he had written his application letter, realizing only too well that someone like him, who had taken as long to finish law school as he had, who had just earned his degree by the skin of his teeth, who had no useful references and no contacts in the legal world, had no chance whatsoever. Never the adventurous type, he had chosen the most unexciting major, tax law, in the high hopes of one day becoming a senior tax official. But by the time he had graduated, the tax authorities were in the midst of a hiring freeze, and so he was forced to change his tack. And lo and behold, he had got the call. It was probably a mistake. Or they were only doing it to be polite. In a little while he would go inside and they would see what he was made of and in ten minutes he would be back outside. He might just as well turn right around, walk across the street, and sit down at the reading table in the Café Américain and drink his coffee and read the Volkskrant, the paper he always read. Sure, he had nothing to lose, but he knew himself well enough to know that a rejection would take a bite o
ut of his self-esteem. What am I doing? he asked himself aloud. A man of his age, or younger, in a stylish trenchcoat with wide lapels looked around fleetingly, decided that he wasn’t being spoken to and disappeared into the building through the revolving door. Probably one of those Barnett & Coolridge types, graduated cum laude, internship in New York, uncle on the European Commission.

  People trying to get in kept coming up behind him, and Barend was doing a good job of being in the way. He turned around and crossed the street, heading for Américain. He certainly had enough time to drink that cup of coffee, and then he could always decide whether to go in.

  Before he went into Américain, he looked up one more time at that massive building that he would probably never enter. When he stroked his chin thoughtfully, as he always did when he couldn’t make up his mind about something, he touched his chin, and it felt like sandpaper. He had shaved that morning, hadn’t he? His stubble could never have grown that fast. Or when he had shaved, had he been too distracted by the interview and not shaved close enough? In the entrance hall at Café Américain, on the left, there was a barbershop. His eyes wandered to it without thinking, and he made eye contact with one of the barbers, who gestured to his chair invitingly. Did they even still do that, just a shave?

  “We certainly do, sir,” said the barber, with an exaggeratedly posh air that should have set off alarm bells. “You would be surprised how many people rush out the door forgetting to shave and then are glad they can come to us.”

  The other barber, who had just as much nothing to do and was leaning against the barber’s table, confirmed this with an assertive grunt, and both brought their put-up-or-shut-up look to bear on Barend. And they didn’t even know that he was expected for a job interview across the street, at Barnett & Coolridge, the name that they could see in gold letters any time they looked up from their work. He could hardly turn around and leave now; the one barber was already seating him in the chair insistently, the other tying the cape around him.

  “Just a shave, now,” he repeated, to be on the safe side. Well, now if he decided to go at least his chin would look perfect. But the rest? He sized himself up in the mirror. Not a pretty sight. His pale face with its myopic, faded blue eyes behind a pair of glasses that always looked crooked because his left eyebrow was lower than his right. Which was because of his habit of closing his left eye all the time, which he had to remember to not do during the interview. And then there was that flaxy, unruly hair that went in every direction except the right one. This is what an applicant who’s not going to get the job looks like. The one who will get the door shut in his face. Who will get sent off with an insult to boot.

  Just a shave. How much were they going to charge for that? He should have asked up front, that was stupid of him. Of course at this place they were used to fleecing rich Americans. He had the urge to tear off the cape, jump up and make a run for it, it was a waste of money. But the barber had already started creaming him up.

  “There you are, sir, smooth as an egg,” said the barber, as he unbuttoned the cape and presented him with the bill. Twelve and a half guilders. Now that he had actually spent the money (twelve and a half?! Highway robbery! He could live for two days on that!) there was nothing for it but to go into that building across the street. Otherwise he had really just thrown that money away.

  She was sitting behind a huge, oval-shaped marble reception desk that you would have thought ostentatious if you hadn’t known that it was an American design. Her hair was gleaming blonde, but the braid draped over her left shoulder was different, darker color. American style. Before he had the chance to even open his mouth, she had already said “Barnett & Coolridge” at least five, maybe six times in the exact same tone, slightly sing-songy but somehow still classy the way she said it, mainly from holding the a in Barnett, accentuated through the telephone.

  “You’re early.” She said it with such a captivating, so amazingly broad greeting smile on her lips that he looked around to see who she was talking to. But there was no one behind him. She pushed a button. “This is Lucy. Mister… ah… Meuleman, the first applicant, is here already. Yes? Okay.”

  The way she said that okay was so melodious, it said so much more than just acknowledgment of what the person on the other end of the line had said. It was the start of a song, though she only sang two notes of it. Hiring her as receptionist had been one of those Barnett & Coolridge strokes of genius, Barend thought, as that miracle of professional representation asked him to take a seat.

  “You’re early,” Barend heard for the second time, now from the woman who came down for him after a few minutes, introducing herself as Stephanie. She was dressed in a grey pantsuit and nothing in particular about her immediately stood out, which made Barend revise his initial impression of Barnett & Coolridge slightly. She was his age or slightly older, with a pair of glasses in thick, dark frames. Which she took off in the elevator to rub her eye for a moment like she had a speck – or was it some other reason? Not bad eyes, he observed, grey-green with a hint of brown. She fixed them on Barend now. He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again because nothing came out.

  “It’s just two floors up,” she said in a voice that must have been meant to reassure him. There was not a lot of room in the elevator and they were so close she must have been able to notice his bewilderment, even without her glasses. She smiled vaguely and put them back on. No way, he thought. No way she had taken them off specially for him, to give him a better look at those eyes. He walked behind her through a long hallway with doors on each side bearing numbers and nameplates, then through a narrower corridor with no doors, a few steps up and then, a little further on, down again. This was the impracticality of a building not originally intended as an office. She stopped in front of a door with no nameplate. When she pulled the handle down to open it, the door didn’t move.

  “Still locked. Okay, then the other way.”

  Once again the consummate professional secretary, it was hard to even imagine that she had ever looked any differently. Maybe it was only in elevators. Although she didn’t say it, he got the impression that this, and who knows what other inconveniences, were the result of his early arrival.

  Through a few other hallways they arrived at a door that did open, at the spot they were evidently supposed to be: a square space that several doors opened onto. There were a few simple, leather-upholstered steel-framed chairs against the wall, and in the middle a low glass table with on it the pink pages of an immaculately folded Financial Times. It was the only color in this bare waiting area. No trace of the opulence of the lobby, but if you had come this far you had penetrated deep into the inner workings of Barnett & Coolridge: there was no going back. Appearances were less important here.

  “Would you mind waiting here? The gentlemen are still in a meeting, but as soon as they’re finished I will let them know that you’re here.”

  As she spoke her lips revealed slightly irregular teeth and a little smear of lipstick on the front two. Imperfection that was out of place at Barnett & Coolridge, but for that very reason helped put him more at ease. She didn’t leave right away, but stayed to make small talk, and when he could look up at her, for a better view: the rounding of her breasts, a little too full for her figure, her white lace blouse meant to hide them, contain them, rather than accentuate them. He surprised himself, that he was paying attention to details like this even now, with what he was here for.

  “It won’t be long.”

  “Sooner or later, spring will come,” said Barend. Because he had hardly used it yet today, his voice sounded hoarse and unnatural.

  She looked at him quizzically. She hadn’t been talking about the weather. He had been distracted by her details. Suddenly, she burst out into a spontaneous laugh, a laugh from deep within her that filled the room, that shattered every tension, that gave everything a new look and a new meaning: a manifestation of boundless cheer and vitality. Barend blushed. His first blunder at Barnett & Coolridg
e.

  “Good luck,” she said, still cheerful, turning to go. And the way she said it, there was no hint of: you’re going to need it.

  Just to not look awkward, he picked up the paper, but he couldn’t concentrate on it, the letters swam before his eyes. His gaze wandered over the top of the newspaper and to the door, which was slightly ajar. Should he risk taking a peek inside? He heard voices. Unless they had been in there the whole time quiet as mice, some people had just come into that room from some other door. It was not that from the moment he heard them he strained to hear what they were saying. It was a gradual process; the more his ears attuned to the timber and tone of the voices, the more he realized he was understanding, so at first he didn’t even know that he was eavesdropping. Listening to something not meant for other ears. Certainly not his.

  “Okay, so you really think you found the ideal candidate? You are sure?” A voice speaking in Dutch, but with a heavily Americanized accent and peppered with English, like that final you are sure. Like someone who had almost forgotten his own language. But a voice that you could tell from a mile away must belong to someone who was used to addressing the staff, holding pep talks, raking people over the coals; a CEO, the chairman of the board and a seat on five or six boards of directors besides. Or a partner in a law firm with a name like Barnett & Coolridge. One of that vanishing breed of voices that dripped with social status.

  “Well, yes, for the job, heh heh heh…” What a phony, cartoon henchman kind of laugh the man who answered had. “But of course you have to be the one to…”

  “They’re starting to get antsy, down there. Time is running out. We have to get right on this… But of course it has to be someone that we can’t go wrong with. Did your people check everything?”